


If Tomorrow Never Comes to Be

by gwynhefar



Series: The Quiet of the Fall [4]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwynhefar/pseuds/gwynhefar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is dying and his only real regret is that he never told Clint he loved him.  When Phil miraculously survives, he wants to make sure there are no regrets next time, but Clint's not going to make it easy.</p><p>This is a prequel to 'Sometimes the Darkness Is Your Friend" and the stories that come after it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first prequel to "The Quiet of the Fall" series, although it can be read as an independent story too.

Phil Coulson is going to die - sooner, rather than later.  He has about two hours, give or take, if he’s lucky.   _Or unlucky as the case may be_ , he thinks, struggling to keep his breathing slow and even, despite the agony each breath brings.  Severe internal bleeding - Phil’s been there enough times to know what it feels like but this time no one is coming for him.  As far as SHIELD is concerned, he’s already dead.  
  
Popular wisdom holds that your life flashes before your eyes as you are about to die.  Phil has been close to death often enough to tell you that that notion is patently untrue.  When it is sudden and unexpected there is only shock, and denial, and a desperate compulsion to do whatever it takes to survive.  When it is slow and certain, as it is now, then your life does not flash so much as parade stately through the mind, lingering on past mistakes and missed opportunities.  
  
Despite his reputation as ‘Perfect Coulson’, Phil does have a number of these but the only one that matters, the only one he _regrets_ , is that now he will never get to tell Clint Barton that he loves him.  He could have - he’s always told himself that he didn’t because he was Clint’s handler, his superior, and it was inappropriate, but that’s not really it, to be honest.  And if you can’t be honest with yourself when you’re dying when can you?  Phil didn’t say anything because he was afraid.    
  
Clint Barton is amazing, larger than life, a hero.  Phil is just a man in a suit.  They’re friends, sure, and Phil’s grateful for that.  He’s even more grateful that he gets to play some small part in what SHIELD does - what Clint does.  Clint respects Phil, and that’s a big deal - Clint doesn’t respect many people and Phil should be content with that - but sometimes Phil catches Clint looking at him and there’s something else in his eyes, something like respect but . . . more.  
  
He should have said something.  The only failure is not to try, some famous person once said.  Phil used to know who but he can’t remember - his mind is getting fuzzy.  ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,’ Phil knows that one - it’s Roosevelt.  Franklin, not Teddy.  He shouldn’t have been afraid.  He should have said something.  Even if Clint didn’t feel the same way at least then he’d know that someone out there loved him more than anything.  But Phil is dying and Clint’s not here and he’ll never know.  
  
Phil drifts a bit - he’s not sure how long, he’s losing his sense of time, and the pain doesn’t feel as bad, which he knows isn’t a good sign.  It’ll be over soon, and despite his one big regret at least he can die knowing he’s accomplished something with his life.  Phil isn’t a hero, not like Clint, he knows that.  But he’s one of the people who makes sure the heroes have what they need to do their jobs, and he’s proud of that.  And he didn’t give his captors anything useful.  Phil’s proud of that, too.  
  
There’s the dim sound of a commotion several rooms away and Phil can hear someone coming down the hall to his cell.  He doesn’t bother trying to move.  There’s nothing more they can do to him now.  The cell door opens and Phil blinks in the sudden light.    
  
“Coulson!   _Jesus_.”  That’s Clint’s voice.  A split second later Phil is looking at Clint’s face as it stares down at him in concern.  His vision is blurry, but Phil would know Clint’s face anywhere.    
  
 _This is nice_ , he thinks.  Phil isn’t sure when he started hallucinating, but this is a good one.  And Clint’s face is a much better last sight than the blank wall of his prison.  Clint’s hands are touching him gently, and Phil manages to snag one in a loose grip as it brushes past his hand. “Clint,” he whispers in satisfaction.  
  
“Oh man.  It’s going to be ok, sir,” Clint says.  Phil wants to snort, but can’t bother to make the effort.  Of course it is.  Clint’s here, isn’t he?  That’s all the ok Phil needs.  Besides, it won’t be long now. He’s getting sleepy, but he keeps his eyes on Hallucination Clint’s face for as long as he can stand to keep them open.    
  
“Stay with me, sir,” Clint says.   _Always with you_ , Phil thinks, too tired to speak and knowing Clint will hear him - this Clint is just a product of his own mind, after all.    
  
“Coulson!” Clint’s voice again, tense and worried-sounding.  Phil frowns.  Why does Clint sound like that?  Everything’s ok - Clint himself just said so, after all.  It’s a puzzle, and usually Phil would be all over it - he’s made an art out of interpreting the way Clint _sounds_ which is often quite different from what he says - but he’s just too tired.  
  
“Dammit, Phil!” Clint’s voice again, but he sounds far away now.  When did he move?  But Clint called him ‘Phil’.  The real Clint never calls him ‘Phil’.  He likes it, wishes he’d gotten to hear it from the real Clint, just once.  But that’s ok, because even if it is a hallucination, Clint saying his name is the last thing he’s ever going to hear and that’s good, so good, and he’s so very tired.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil doesn’t die, but it’s a near thing.  He wakes up in SHIELD medical with less surprise than he expected, but he has nebulous half-memories of having woken up before so he supposes he’s had time to get used to the idea of not being dead.  His chest aches vaguely through the muffled, cottony feel of opiates and Clint is dozing in an uncomfortable-looking chair by his bed.  
  
Apparently the Clint Phil saw in the cell _wasn’t_ a hallucination.  Which means Clint really did call him ‘Phil’.  That’s . . . encouraging.  
  
As if he can feel Phil’s gaze, Clint stirs.  There’s relief in his eyes when he sees Phil awake and he leans forward with a small smile.  “Hey.  How you feeling?”  
  
“Sore,” Phil tries to answer, but it comes out more like a croak.  Clint jumps up to get him some water that he sips gratefully.  When Clint sits back down again he moves the chair closer to the bed, arms resting on his knees with his hands barely touching the crisp hospital linen.  Phil imagines he can feel the comforting warmth of Clint’s body even with the distance still between them.  “How long have you been here?” he asks, because he distantly recalls Clint being there the previous times he awoke as well.  
  
“Not long, a few hours maybe - Nat made me get some food,” Clint replies, eyes flicking to the side.  That isn’t what Phil meant, and Clint knows it, but he doesn’t push, easily interpreting the evasion for the answer it is: _since you were brought in_.  
  
“How did you know to come after me?” Phil asks.  “There was a body.”  The Hydra cell that had captured him had been working with cloning.  They’d had a replacement Coulson all ready - no mind to it, just a body which they dressed in Phil’s clothes and dumped in the warehouse where they’d snatched him before blowing the place up.  When SHIELD came to investigate, they would have found Phil Coulson’s body in the wreckage.  Which is why Phil had been so certain no one was coming, why he'd thought the Clint he had seen couldn’t have been real.     
  
All expression on Clint’s face shuts down, his way of dealing with a topic almost too painful to talk about, but one of his hands makes an abortive twitch toward Phil’s.  Phil shifts his own hand so that it’s resting half on Clint’s in a subtle move that could almost be mistaken as accidental except for the way Phil curls his little finger around Clint’s holding on just tightly enough that Clint would have to deliberately pull away to separate them.  He doesn’t, and Phil breathes an inward sigh of relief.  Clint’s face is still blank as he answers, but it seems to Phil that a little of the tension has left his shoulders.    
  
“One of the beams that fell on it protected some of the back from the fire,” Clint says, voice hollow and clinical, calling the clone an ‘it’ when at the time he must have thought of it as _Phil_.  Phil tries to imagine what it would feel like to see Clint’s body in that sort of condition but his mind skitters away from the image.  It is literally unthinkable.    
  
“It was missing your scars,” Clint continues and Phil feels a wash of cold at the realisation.  Yes, that is something Clint would notice and he has no doubt that Clint _was_ the one to notice, to make the realization that the body wasn’t really Phil’s.

Clint has always hated those scars, the physical tokens of a mission where Clint was forced to watch as Phil was whipped in an attempt to extract information neither of them actually had.  Phil has always known that that experience had hurt Clint far worse than the lashes had hurt him.  
  
“Thank you,” Phil says. Clint shrugs uncomfortably.  
  
“They’d have figured it out anyway,” he says, nonchalantly.    
  
“Maybe,” Phil replies skeptically, because after a genetic test came back conclusive who would have taken the time to compare scars?  “But not in time.”  
  
Clint shudders and almost collapses forward, hovering with his body only inches from Phil’s as if trying to shield him death itself as Clint’s hand clenches spasmodically around Phil’s.    
  
If Phil’s head had been clearer, if he hadn’t been triply distracted by the muffling effect of the drugs, the giddy sense of possibility that came with being unexpectedly alive, and the tantalising sight of Clint’s body so close, he would have thought to speak first, but Clint’s face is _right there_ and the desperation to make sure Clint _knows_ has never really left so Phil gives into temptation and reaches up with his free hand to cup Clint’s chin and pull his face down, pressing his lips to Clint’s, gently at first, and then more hungrily when he meets no resistance.  
  
Clint doesn’t push Phil away.  After a shocked second or two he even responds, his mouth moving against Phil’s with nearly bruising intensity.  And then he suddenly jerks back as if stung, staring at Phil with wide eyes as Phil tries to get his muddled thoughts in order and stop looking as dazed as he feels.  Phil isn’t so muddled that he misses the quick flash of fear that travels across Clint’s face, though.  
  
Clint rubs a shaky hand over his face, and when he brings it down his mask is back firmly in place.    
  
“Wow, they do have you on the good drugs, don’t they, sir?” Clint says with an amused smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.  Lord knows you’ve seen me do plenty of stupid stuff while hopped up on pain pills.”  
  
Phil sighs.  The idea that Clint could think kissing him would be a stupid decision on Phil’s part frustrates him, but Clint’s face is closed off now.  Thing is, Phil can’t even argue.  He _is_ on the good stuff and he knows nothing he can say will convince Clint that kissing him wasn’t a mistake, that Phil _means it_.  At least not until after Phil’s no longer on any medication.  
  
Clint shifts restlessly in his chair and Phil is suddenly afraid that the awkwardness is too much, that Clint will leave, that he will start avoiding him and Phil won’t even be able to go after him because he’ll be stuck in this damn hospital bed for days.  
  
“Clint,” Phil says, trying to ensure his voice is composed and pretty sure he manages it.  
  
“Yes, sir?” Clint asks, still not looking Phil directly in the eye.  
  
“Stay?” It is meant to be a command, but it comes out more like a plea.  Clint looks up then, startled, and meets Phil’s eyes.  Phil isn’t sure what he sees, but whatever it is, it’s good, because Clint relaxes suddenly, and when he answers his voice is a warm smile.  
  
“Of course.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

It is another week before Phil is off the drugs and released from medical.  Clint spends most of the week at his bedside, leaving for only brief periods to eat, shower, and change.  Eventually he charms the nurses into putting another bed in Phil’s room so he can sleep there as well.    
  
Phil sleeps a lot the first few days but before the week’s half through he’s been weaned off the morphine drip and onto Percocet pills every four hours and at least now his head’s a bit clearer and he spends more of his days awake than asleep.  Clint doesn’t leave though - he just starts bringing movies for them to watch together rather than books for him to read alone and spends hours catching Phil up on all the SHIELD gossip.  
  
Phil doesn’t say anything about the kiss, deciding to save that discussion for when he’s no longer in a hospital bed, and Clint is visibly relieved.  
  
One night they’ve just finished watching the third Lord of the Rings movie (a guilty pleasure for them both - Phil loves them because duh, _Tolkien_ , and Clint gets a kick out of critiquing the archers) when Clint stands up to announce that he’s headed back to his room to shower and change, but not to worry, he’ll be right back.  
  
“Or you could get some decent sleep in your own bed for once, Barton,” Phil replies, because Clint’s still got dark circles under his eyes.  
  
“And miss Nurse Scanlon’s wonderful coffee in the morning?” Clint replies with a smirk.  “Never!”  
  
“Why?” Phil asks, ignoring Clint’s attempt at deflection.  Clint doesn’t bother pretending to misunderstand, and his eyes go soft for a moment.    
  
“You asked me to stay,” he says with a shrug, as if the answer should be obvious.  Perhaps, to Clint, it is.  
  
Phil tries several times over the next few days to get Clint to go home at night, but every time he gets that stubborn glint to his eyes and repeats “You asked me to stay.”  Finally, after the third time Phil tries convincing Clint that when he asked him to stay he didn’t really mean 24/7, Clint changes his answer.  
  
“I sleep better here,” he says.  “At home I get nightmares.  So unless you really don’t want me around . . .”  Clint’s voice trails off and he looks embarrassed, as if it has just occurred to him that maybe Phil _doesn’t_ want him around and was trying to be polite about it.  
  
“Stay,” Phil says firmly.  
  
  
At the end of the week, Phil is given a prescription for Vicodin he will never fill and told that he can go home, as long as he promises to stay off his feet as much as possible and has someone to look after him.  Clint is there, of course, and it takes all of Phil’s willpower not to look over at him hopefully.  
  
He needn’t have worried - Clint doesn’t even glance at Phil for permission before asking the doctor for details on what Phil should and shouldn’t be doing and any other information needed to take care of him at home.  Phil is absurdly grateful.  He really hadn’t been enamoured of the idea of staying in Medical because he has no one to check up on him.  He’s also looking forward to the chance to get Clint alone and correct a certain misconception.  
  
Clint drives Phil home in his own car.  He helps Phil into the apartment, deposits him on the bed, and sternly instructs him to take a nap while Clint goes to pick up supplies at the local supermarket.  Phil acquiesces after only a token protest because he _is_ tired, his body reminding him that he’d nearly died a little over a week ago.    
  
When he wakes, the apartment smells heavenly and Phil finds Clint in the kitchen making chicken noodle soup _from scratch_.  
  
“You don’t have to cook for me, you know,” Phil tells him.  
  
“I wanted to,” Clint says with a smile.  “I almost never get to cook.  For some reason they refuse to let me use the mess kitchens at Headquarters,” he adds, widening his eyes innocently.  
  
“How inexplicable,” Phil returns dryly.  “I’m sure the fact that you blew up their stove last year has nothing to do with it.”  
  
“Hey!  That was entirely intentional,” Clint insists with exaggerated offense.  “I never blow stuff up by accident.”  
  
“If that’s true,” Phil replies, “then I need to look into filing a few more disciplinary forms.  And here I’ve been giving you the benefit of the doubt all this time.”  
  
Clint grimaces.  “Ok, so maybe a few times it’s been unintentional.”  Phil hums distractedly as he dips a spoon into the pot to take a taste.  The sound he makes when he does so is downright embarrassing.    
  
“Wow,” he says appreciatively.  “You can cook in my kitchen any time you want.”  
  
Clint gives Phil a shy, pleased smile.  “Yeah?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Dinner passes in comfortable silence.  Phil is too busy savouring his soup to make conversation, but he makes sure Clint can see his appreciation.  The shy smile still plays around his lips.  
  
A sharp glare from Clint prevents Phil from even offering to help with the dishes.  Instead, he sits at the table and watches Clint move with confidence around his kitchen, wondering if this truly is the first time Clint has been here, or just the first time Phil is aware of.  The idea of Clint using his apartment while he is away, far from being alarming, actually makes Phil feel honoured that Clint feels safe in his home.  
  
Phil waits until Clint is done in the kitchen, the last dry dish returned unerringly to its place, sink wiped down, hands dry.  When Clint turns to face Phil with a satisfied expression, Phil rises and moves to stand directly in front of him.    
  
Taking in the serious expression on Phil’s face, Clint’s eyebrows draw together in worried confusion.  Phil takes a deep breath.  
  
“I haven’t touched anything stronger than Advil since yesterday,” Phil says.  Clint raises a curious eyebrow as if to ask ‘why is this relevant?’.  Phil sees the exact moment of realisation - Clint’s eyes grow wide and his face white with shock.  
  
“I thought you didn’t-” he stammers.  
  
“I remember,” Phil says softly, shuffling a half step forward, pulse loud in his ears.  He’s practically nose-to-nose with Clint now, but the archer doesn’t back away.  “It wasn’t the drugs, Clint,” Phil says firmly, looking into those blue eyes for some hint of what the other man is thinking.  His heart leaps as he sees a cautious kind of hope dawning on Clint’s face. Phil closes the distance between them slowly, giving Clint plenty of time to back out.  He doesn’t.  
  
When their lips touch it is like a dam breaking.  The kiss is hungry, insistent, Clint’s hands coming up to hold Phil in place as he devours him, all tongue and teeth and Phil giving back as good as he gets.  
  
They finally break apart when air becomes an issue, and Phil’s hands, which have somehow made it up to Clint’s shoulders without his consciously moving them, tighten to hold him in place while Phil rests his forehead against Clint’s.    
  
“I love you,” Phil whispers into the tiny space between them, and each word is like a weight lifted from his chest until he feels light as air.  
  
It is the wrong thing to say.  

Clint makes a painful sound low in his throat and pulls back, looking at Phil with haunted eyes.  “No you don’t,” he says miserably.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last chapter turned out to be too long so I split it up. That makes this the penultimate chapter. Enjoy!

For a moment Phil stands there frozen, staring at Clint with blank incomprehension.  When the words finally penetrate his first response is anger.  Rejection Phil could have handled - had been what he’d been expecting, actually, until Clint’s recent actions had given him hope.  Acceptance would have been wonderful, of course, and reciprocation a presumptuous dream he hardly allows himself to imagine, but _denial_?  What right has anyone, even Clint, to tell Phil how he feels?  
  
Luckily the despondent look on Clint’s face cools the anger before shows in Phil’s expression. Clint is looking away from Phil, head down and shoulders hunched as if almost expecting a physical blow.  The sight rocks Phil to the core and shocks him into thinking, _really_ thinking, before he opens his mouth. 

Phil takes a deep breath.  “Clint,” he says gently, waiting until the archer’s eyes flick to him before continuing.  “Why do you think that?”  
  
Clint shakes his head and takes another step back and Phil lets him, gives him the space he needs to work it all out in his head.  Phil has a feeling he knows what’s going on, and the thought that he might be right rekindles the anger, but not at Clint, never at Clint.  Phil is angry at himself, and at every person who ever told Clint he wasn’t enough - not good enough, not strong enough, not fast enough, not smart enough, just . . not enough.  
  
“I get it, ok,” Clint says already trying to downplay whatever hurt he’s feeling, and Phil has to bite back a frustrated ‘well _I_ don’t’ knowing he’ll get more out of Clint if he just lets him talk.  
  
“You almost _died_ ,” Clint says, forcing the words out as if it is physically difficult for him to do so.  “And I was there.  And then after I was around . . . maybe too much.  I was being selfish,” he says, looking down again as if confessing a mortal sin, “wanting to spend more time with you and not have nightmares where I didn’t get there in time.”    
  
Phil keeps silent from sheer force of will, but inside he’s kicking himself.  He’d known Clint is attracted to him for some time, but how did he miss that it is clearly so much more?  
  
“And there’s this thing between us, always has been and I get that right now it seems like a good idea but in a couple of weeks everything will be back to normal and you’ll remember all the reasons this _isn’t_ a good idea and I just . . . I can’t do that.  Please.”  
  
It’s the please that breaks Phil’s heart.  And he really wishes he could say that Clint isn’t justified in his fears but he can’t.  Phil’s spent years hiding how deep his feelings for Clint run and while the truth is that the whole almost-dying thing simply gave him the courage to act on the feelings that were already there he can hardly blame Clint for thinking otherwise.  
  
But justified or not, Phil isn’t going to let Clint’s fears stand in the way.  Unexpected impediments are part of every operation and Phil Coulson doesn’t give up, he _fixes_ them.  
  
“What will it take?” Phil asks, far more calmly than he feels.  
  
“What?” Clint asks, confused.    
  
“You think this is a reaction to what happened last week.  It’s not, but I completely understand why you think that.  So I need to know, what will it take to convince you I’m serious?”  
  
Clint heaves a sigh.  “Coulson . . .” he starts, and Phil doesn’t flinch at the use of his surname.  He doesn’t.  
  
“The only thing that could make me give up is if you didn’t want this.  You’ve made it pretty clear that you do, so I’m going to keep trying to convince you that _I_ want it until you believe me.  So give me a hint.  What will it take?”  
  
Clint looks at Phil shrewdly, as if trying to find the catch.  “A month,” he says finally.  “A full month and we don’t do anything about it, we don’t talk about it, everything goes back to the way it was.  And at the end of the month if you’re still interested we can talk about it,” Clint says challengingly.  
  
A month.  Phil has waited this long.  He can wait another month.  “All right,” he agrees.  “We’ll talk again in a month,” Phil says, sealing the deal, and he hates the skepticism he sees in Clint’s eyes.  
  
All of the sudden Phil feels tired, so very tired, and he lets it show.  “I’m going to go to bed,” he tells Clint.  
  
Clint nods.  “I’ll just . . you know,” he mumbles awkwardly, gesturing at the couch.  Phil nods and goes down the hall to his bedroom, feeling Clint’s eyes on him the whole way.  
  
  
Displaying the finely honed skill of compartmentalising that all agents must develop in order to function, Phil and Clint spend the next month interacting as if nothing in their relationship has changed.  Phil still isn’t cleared for the field, so there are no missions, but Clint spends most of his days on the couch in Phil’s office, reading or rambling about various subjects while Phil catches up on paperwork.  Clint helps Phil work through his PT, absorbing the brunt of Phil’s frustration with ease.  All in all, it is as normal as they ever get, but behind it all, Phil Coulson is plotting.  
  
Phil is actually surprised by how worried he _isn’t_.  Always before he’d kept his silence out of fear that Clint would reject him.  Clint would have done it as gently as possible, Phil knows, which would actually have made it worse.  In Phil’s mind, he was always the chess club geek daring to fall in love with the quarterback.    
  
But now, knowing that the only thing really standing between them is Clint’s fears that Phil might reject _him_ , he finds his confidence returning.  Phil may not be an archer like Clint, but he’s still always done his best with a target in sight.  
  
There’s not much Phil can do without violating his agreement with Clint, but he does make sure to put an extra _deliberateness_ into his interactions with the younger man, trying to get him to stand back and view their ‘normal’ in a whole new light.  Really, Phil thinks, they’ve been practically dating for years.  
  
And then, of course, there are the administrative details, which require a meeting with Fury.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and fluff galore. Make sure you brush your teeth after reading this - you have been warned.

“Coulson,” Fury acknowledges as Phil walks into his office.  “What can I do for you?”  
  
Phil straightens his shoulders.  “In accordance with SHIELD policy, I am informing you that I will be marrying Agent Barton at some time in the foreseeable future, and while I believe we are both professional enough that it will not affect our job performance, I would like to volunteer to be the one reassigned, should you feel reassignment necessary.”  
  
Phil has the rare pleasure of seeing Nick Fury speechless for a few seconds before he recovers his composure.  
  
“Is Agent Barton aware of his upcoming nuptials?” Fury asks with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“He’s choosing to disbelieve my intentions at the moment.  I have a plan.”    
  
“Of course you do.” Fury says dryly, but he leans back in his chair with a smirk and there is amusement around his eye.  “And when will this wedding be?” he asks, “I’ll be sure to clear my schedule.”  
  
“Still undetermined, sir,” Phil says with a small smile.  “I thought maybe we’d date first.  And then there’d have to be a period of engagement.  The timeline is flexible.”  
  
“Alright then, Agent,” Fury says.  “I see no need for reassignment at this juncture.  I trust you will keep me informed of your general progress.”  
  
“Of course, sir,” Phil replies.  
  
“Very well.  Dismissed,” Fury says with a nod.  “And, Phil?”  Phil cocks his own eyebrow in response.  “It’s about time,” Fury answers with a roll of his eye.    
  
Phil grins.  “Yes, sir”   
  
  
  
As the month nears its end, Phil starts to get not quite nervous, but . . . restless.  He’s caught Clint looking at him with a considering expression once or twice, which probably means he’s been doing it a lot - Clint is nothing if not sneaky.  But whatever it is Clint is thinking, he’s keeping it firmly to himself.  Phil would be impressed at the level to which Clint has behaved exactly as if there were nothing currently hanging between them except that Clint’s very success means Phil is going into this blind.  
  
Normally there’d be paperwork to fill out for this sort of situation, which is Phil’s go-to method for getting his thoughts in order, but most of it is already done.  Clint has been Phil’s next-of-kin and medical POA for years because even when he’d thought an actual relationship was hopeless there is no one Phil trusts more.  He wonders whether Clint has ever even noticed that he is always the first informed when Phil ends up in Medical - unless of course Clint had been there when it happened, which is most of the time - and that he is always allowed unrestricted access.  Phil is Clint’s next-of-kin and medical POA too, and has been since he was recruited because Clint literally has no one else, although Phil likes to think Clint would have chosen him anyway if there had been a choice.  
  
Still, Phil has always been a rip-the-bandaid-off kind of guy, so after twenty-eight days he decides hell with it and goes to find Clint.  It’s _technically_ been a month, and Phil is all about technicality.  
  
Phil finds Clint at the range, and it’s the work of seconds to disable the internal cameras.  There is no one else there - most agents tend to vacate the premises rather rapidly once Hawkeye shows up - so Phil locks the door behind him as he steps inside.  It won’t actually stop Clint from running if he wants to, but it will at least slow him down a bit.  
  
“It’s only been twenty-eight days,” Clint says conversationally, without turning around or taking his eye off the moving targets he’s shooting, and Phil can’t help but take it as a good sign that Clint has clearly been counting too.  
  
“February has twenty-eight days,” Phil counters.  
  
“This is June,” Clint replies, unimpressed.  
  
“You said a month,” Phil says, letting the corner of his mouth turn up.  “You didn’t specify _which_ month.”  
  
Clint turns to face Phil and rolls his eyes.  “I’ll remember to be more specific next time.”  
  
“Do you really want to wait until Monday?  I’ll come back then if that’s what you want,” Phil offers sincerely, although he really doesn’t want to go through another weekend of uncertainty.  
  
Clint shakes his head.  “No we can do it now,” he says, as he breaks down his bow and quiver and puts them back in his bag.  He returns to stand in front of Phil, a good three feet between them, and folds his arms across his chest in a move probably intended to be forbidding, but all Phil sees is a man trying to protect his vulnerable underbelly.  Clint takes a deep breath and puts his shoulders back, like he’s bracing himself for a blow.  
  
“Well?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Phil says nothing for a moment, just staring at this man standing in front of him who is trying so very hard not to look like he’s about to have his heart ripped out - standing there waiting for Phil to tell him that he was right, that Phil hadn’t been thinking clearly earlier, and to thank him for stopping them from making such a huge mistake, for being so very understanding about it all.  
  
“Do you know how long I have loved you?” Phil asks, finally.  Clint’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head mutely.  
  
“I’ve loved you for years,” Phil answers, and his voice is steady, no more hesitation.  He’s using his ‘listen close because this is _important_ ’ voice and Clint is watching him transfixed.    
  
“I didn’t say anything because I am your handler and it would be inappropriate of me to proposition someone under my authority.  But mostly because you’re an honest-to-God hero and what could you possibly want with a suit like me?”    
  
Clint’s eyes flash in indignation and for a moment Phil thinks he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t, he just waits for Phil to continue.  
  
“But then I was dying and the one thing - the _only_ thing that I regretted was that I’d never told you that I love you.  I would have given anything right then for you to have been there to hear it.”   
  
Clint’s face is pale and he is trembling almost imperceptibly.  Phil takes a deep breath, because he’s almost done, and once Phil says his piece he’ll have to deal with the answer.  
  
“So now I have.  Do with it what you will.”  Phil falls silent and waits for a reaction.    
  
Clint says nothing, but his eyes are wide and stricken as he looks at Phil.  It takes all Phil’s strength not to look away.  There’s a debate going on behind those eyes - Clint looks like he is wrestling between two equally unpleasant choices.  
  
The silence stretches and finally Phil nods and turns to leave.  He pushed for this, so he has no one but himself to blame if he misjudged and pushed too hard.  Phil tries not to let the disappointment choke him.  He’s not giving up - Phil Coulson never _gives up_ \- but it might be time to do a little regrouping.  Obviously bold and direct was not the right tactic to take.  
  
Phil is already sketching out plans in his head as he reaches the door - trying to determine how long he should wait before trying again and what tactic to try next - such that he almost doesn’t notice when Clint finally speaks.  
  
“You’re not a suit,” Clint says softly.  
  
Phil turns and glances down at the dark grey pinstripe he’s currently wearing, raising a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
“You’re not _just_ a suit,” Clint corrects himself with a tiny almost-smile that disappears almost as soon as it appears, taking a few steps forward.    
  
“You’re brilliant.  You’re more dangerous than the vast majority of our full-time field agents.  You’re terrifyingly competent.  Fury relies on you for everything and the whole organisation speaks your name with hushed tones and I have no idea why you even decided to _talk_ to me, much less want-” and here Clint seems to run out of words and just waves his hand between the two of them.  
  
“I’m just a dumb ex-carney fuck up who never graduated high school and the only thing I got goin’ for me is that I can shoot real well.  I’m no hero.  What could _you_ possibly want with _me_?”  Clint has closed half the distance between them as he was talking and now Phil can see the hope warring with the confusion and the bitterness in his eyes.  He has to shake his head at what idiots they’ve both been.  
  
“You’re not a fuck up,” Phil says, taking the last few steps to bring them face-to-face again.  “Do you know how many of the people we go out there and fight have backgrounds similar to yours?  I keep reading the profiles and they’re all the same.  You had to deal with the same shit they dealt with and in most cases you had to deal with _more_ but I don’t see you out there blowing up cities and terrorising innocents.”  Phil’s voice has been rising with agitation and he takes a deep breath to keep from shouting.

“You took the crappy hand fate gave you and you turned your life into something amazing.  I think that alone makes you a hero,” Phil says softly, staring into Clint’s shocked eyes and willing him to believe it.    
  
“And your shooting is _not_ all you have going for you.  You’re a genius tactician, or haven’t you noticed that Fury’s always asking your opinion of an op _before_ we deploy in the field.  You’ve never let your lack of formal education hold you back so don’t give me that shit about being ‘dumb’.  I wish you could see how amazing you are,” Phil concludes sadly.  
  
Clint is staring at Phil like he’s grown another head, but after a moment the hope that has been growing in his eyes blossoms into joy and he throws his head back and actually laughs out loud.    
  
“Is this the part where you say I may not be dumb but I’m still an idiot?” he asks Phil, grinning.  
  
All the tension, all the frustration and fear and heartache leaves Phil in an instant and he feels giddy.  He grins back.  “No more so than I was being,” he assures his archer.  
  
“So we’re both awesome, and we’re both idiots?” Clint clarifies.  
  
“Yeah, I think that about sums it up,” Phil says.  He takes one final step that brings him well into Clint’s personal space and marvels that Clint doesn’t tense up.    
  
“I love you,” Phil says again, trying to speak directly to that last tiny bit of doubt he sees in Clint’s face.  
  
“You’re sure?” Clint whispers.  “You won’t take it back?”  
  
“Never,” Phil promises, and just like that the doubt is gone.  
  
“I love you too,” Clint says, and the words send a thrill down Phil’s spine, all the nerves in his body singing with a feeling of ‘finally!’  
  
“I know,” Phil answers, and kisses Clint for the third time.


End file.
